


he ahold of my hand has (in)completely satisfied me

by hippocampers



Category: History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Suicide, mental health focused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9462836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocampers/pseuds/hippocampers
Summary: The cool air on his skin is the only real thing he’s felt in weeks. David exhales, slow and steady, letting his arms drop from around his knees and stretching out his legs. Briefly, he considers letting himself lie back, letting his head dip under the water and simply stay there.-Building upon the periodic breakdowns touched upon at the end of the play.





	

The bath-water is cooling around him, skin turning to gooseflesh as he pulls his knees closer to his chest.

It’s unnerving, a little, that he can feel his ribcage against the expanse of his thighs. David has always been skinny – Scripps used to tease him about it good-naturedly as they changed for P.E., slipping biscuits and sweet snacks into his bag when he thought David wasn’t looking. But this is a little more than adolescent growth spurts leaving him lanky. He can’t bring himself to eat much more than a bite of dry toast for each meal, stomach churning even at that. His appetite, along with the will to live, has left him.

There is a knock on the door. “David?” His mother.

He ignores it. Maybe she will leave.

“David, please…”

She doesn’t.

“I’m bathing, mum.” His voice sounds alien, lack of use rendering it strange and foreign to even his own ears.

“It’s been ninety-three minutes, sweetheart.”

Oh. He knew it had been a while, but not that long. If he’s completely honest with himself, time feels irrelevant nowadays anyway. He can barely living.

“Okay, mum. I won’t be long.”

He wonders how long he can put off getting out – the confines of the bathtub make him feel somewhat comforted, despite the hideous avocado shade that reflects on his lily-white skin and makes him look nauseous. The cool air on his skin is the only real thing he’s felt in weeks. David exhales, slow and steady, letting his arms drop from around his knees and stretching out his legs. Briefly, he considers letting himself lie back, letting his head dip under the water and simply stay there. An insistent voice at the back of his head whispers to do it, poisonously seductive. A more rational voice, one that sounds suspiciously like Akthar, informs him that suicide is a sin. And that it wouldn’t work anyway; his brain’s survival instinct would override the desire for death at the last second, efforts gone to waste. That’s more convincing that the sin part.

Slowly, as though wading through thick treacle, David rises, and wraps himself in a towel. Drying himself off takes even longer, the rough fabric making him flinch each time it scrapes across his skin. It feels like torture, and a part of him relishes it.

The flannel of his pyjamas is more gentle, to the point that he doesn’t even feel it. Eventually, David opens the door. He finds his mother standing directly outside, brows creased with worry as she clutches a tea towel to her chest. His father stands behind her, eyes betraying his own concern.

“Son.” A fist grabs at David’s heart and squeezes. He almost knows what’s coming. “I think you need some help.”

* * *

 

The hospital does not entirely get rid of the poisonous voice that whispers its desire for death. Admittedly, it is muffled somewhat by the cocktail of sedatives they give him. Doctors come and go, complete with clipboards and white coats and questions like “How do you feel?” and “Feeling any better?”

David answers neither.

His parents come by every day, at visiting hours. His mother fills the thick silence with inane chatter about the neighbours and, usually when she thinks David is asleep, stifled sobs. His father brings the newspaper, which David holds in his lap briefly, but can’t focus on for more than two minutes. They pile up on the table next to his bed, unread and outdated.

On the second Wednesday, his parents bring letters. News has, apparently, spread to the others. The Oxbridge set are spread across the globe, spending the summer travelling or with family elsewhere in England. Akthar has written three pages, discussing classes and making promises to visit when he can. He’s stuck in Edinburgh, apparently. Dakin sends a postcard from Vienna, words brief. Timms sends a card, as does Lockwood, and Rudge. Crowther sends a letter, shorter than Akthar’s but touching nonetheless.

David tries not to notice the gaping hole in his chest when he realises who is missing.

The following Friday, his parents don’t visit at all. Instead, when visiting hours come around again, the door opens to another familiar face.

“Pos.”

Donald looks anxious, broad shoulders tensed and face somewhat pained. David meets his eyes and prays the other boy – man – can’t see how hollow they are.

“Hello.”

There is a soft exhale of breath, and Don takes a step into the room. “Hi.” He moves to sit in the chair David’s mum normally takes, and his hand twitches momentarily, as if to rest atop David’s own on the sheets, but stills on Don’s knee. “I didn’t- I had no clue. That things were like this.”

“It’s fine.” It is not fine, and they both know it. The silence is palpable.

A few beats pass, before Donald reaches into his bag. “I brought you some stuff. Books.” A brick-sized tome of Whitman poems is placed, gently, on his knees, the pressure comforting.

David gives a weak and barely-there smile. “Thanks.”

“But, erm, I did some research and I know you might not be able to focus on it.” Don rubs the back of his neck, awkward and uncharacteristically shy. Briefly, warmth blooms in David’s stomach – he’s grateful not to have to explain his inattentiveness to someone else. “Thought I could maybe read some to you instead.”

David considers this. It may be awkward, he may feel like a child, it may rekindle the painful acceptance of his failures.

He wants it regardless. Maybe he will feel something this way.

“That would be nice.”

Don nods. “Okay.” And he starts up.

By the end of the third, David is asleep, and Don’s hand has found his.

It’s only when he wakes the next day that he realises Donald was not meant to be in Sheffield at all, but had been staying in Wales with family. Something unfamiliar and not totally unpleasant coils in his stomach at the thought.

* * *

 

The process of recovery is much like the process of leaving the bath; it is slow, and oftentimes David feels that his parents are waiting impatiently just outside the metaphorical door.

His first day out of the hospital is strange, and while he smiles to his mother as she proudly shows him the bedroom they’ve kept exactly the same, David still feels like a foreigner in this house. It takes a good while for him to feel less like an intruder; he pines for the architecture and atmosphere of Oxford, but knows he can’t yet return – he is not yet strong enough to resist the temptation of destruction.

Donald returns to Oxford for his second year, as do the other boys, one-by-one. David does not. Don sends letters, though, and one weekend, he turns up at David’s house anyway. That’s the first time he identifies joy in his heart since the start of this ordeal. Don nudges him over, stretching out on the bed next to him with the Whitman tome in his lap.

David is reminded of how delightful Whitman sounds in a gruff Northern accent. It is refreshing, different to the clipped RP tones of his college peers.

This time, he doesn’t fall asleep, and he can focus on the words without his mind drifting elsewhere. It’s nice, comfortable. David lets himself relax against Don’s shoulder. Slowly, the other boy lifts his arm, and David ends up snuggled against his chest. He refuses to let himself read more into it.

“Do you miss Oxford?”

The question takes him by surprise – they’re mid-way through _Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances._ David lifts his head, brows furrowed just slightly at the query. Don balks, rubbing his neck again.

“Sorry. That was… not the most tactful thing I’ve said.” He pauses. “It’s okay, you don’t need to answer.”

There is a moment of silence before Don haltingly continues.

“I do miss it,” David murmurs, at the end. He feels Don’s arm tighten around his shoulders, and lets a small smile tug at his lips. “But I want to enjoy it, not spend my time there wishing I was dead. That’s not the point, I suppose.”

“No,” Don agrees. His hand has made its way to stroke David’s hair. “I suppose not.”

They lie there in the quiet for a bit, listening to the various sounds of David’s parents bustling about in the kitchen below. Life is beginning to return to normal.

David is not sure what this thing with Don is. He doesn’t expect the other boy knows either. There are likely a few conversations they need to have, in the coming weeks, but for now, David is content to just lie here and enjoy the comfort.

It doesn’t completely silence the part of him that wants to end it all. It doesn’t fix him – to think so would be naïve, and above all, David is tired of being that.

But it helps.

And if Don is happy to hold his hand and read him poems on the tiny single bed in the attic room of his parents’ house, who is David to deny him that?

 

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing for The History Boys. I am totally obsessed with these wonderful characters, and have read every fic available to me.
> 
> Come and talk to me about history boys and other things on [my tumblr](http://eponymousorange.tumblr.com).
> 
> Title from Whitman's "Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances."


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